


The House

by Fictionwriter



Series: The Train [2]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:09:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionwriter/pseuds/Fictionwriter
Summary: ‘tis a lonely place.





	The House

**Author's Note:**

> The train gains another passenger by proxy. Written for the original 'The Train' series of prompts on LJ

It’s just a house, the same as all the rest on the street, but through blazing hot sun or winter’s chill it never changes. The shutters are always down, the tall tree waves its branches over the patch of grass that remains the same short length and the driveway hasn’t borne the weight of a car for years.

Inside is always dark, but she doesn’t care. The rushing world outside isn’t her world anymore. Hasn’t been since That Day so darkness doesn’t bother her and she can see the sun from the kitchen window whenever she wants, tucked as it is at the back and hidden from the neighbour’s view by the tall fence.

Maybe she will go outside one day, out through the front door and onto her small porch, perhaps even as far as the gate and the street.

But no. Then she would see the other house, the one next door he snuck into with his father’s gun; when the screaming started and the night air exploded into those horrible noises that echoed through the walls and shattered the quiet peace of the street. They’d tried, both of them, to get him to come out, stop what he was doing. But the flashing lights and wailing sirens won in the end. The silence afterwards, when they took him away, was deafening.

So she will stay inside. Keep away from the gawking eyes and memories. Make herself a cup of tea and sit in front of the television, never quite sure what is on but enjoying the voices that shut out the ones in her head. And at night she will curl up in her bed and try to forget, until the sound of a train whistle haunts through the air. There are no train tracks nearby but she hears that whistle every day, always at the same time, and knows what it means. Her son has been picked up.

There is always the fear that he might come to her door before the train collects him, wanting to see her, explain himself perhaps, where there is no explanation acceptable. But she won’t answer his knock if he does.

This is her safe place.


End file.
